Ten Minutes
by Sofia Merriweather
Summary: Reposted from my fill on the kink meme. Sherlock gets bitten by a zombie. John must deal with his death and carry on.


I've been lurking on the kink meme. Whoops. The prompt was basically: Sherlock gets bitten by a zombie. John carries on.

* * *

Someone puts a hand on his shoulder.

John spins, his hand on his gun, but it's only Sherlock. Sherlock's other hand is at his neck, and he's wearing a sheepish expression, tinged with-pain? John's stomach drops.

"No," John says.

Sherlock smiles a little, sad. "Sorry," he says.

"I was only away for five minutes," John says, choking back a sob. "I was away for five bloody minutes. How did you get bitten?"

"We knew about the group in the front of the warehouse," Sherlock says, "but while you took care of them, I found another group, in the room behind this one."

"And they're…"

"Gone. But I got too close- I just wanted to see-"

"God, Sherlock." The sob escapes John this time, and he bows his head, turning his face into Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock puts a hand on his shoulder. John slowly straightens, slipping into his soldier's stance.

"How much time do you have?"

"Oh, probably ten minutes," Sherlock says, forcing another smile. John takes a deep breath, and for a moment they just stare at each other.

Then, they start speaking, tongues tripping with what hasn't been and what needs to be said.

"Sherlock, I love you, and I was going to tell you someday when we weren't in a place like this," John says. Sherlock stares, his eyes warm and sad.

"You don't have to watch this, John. Get away now and I won't be able to catch up to you. Find another partner." Sherlock's eyes are beseeching. "Please, John. My last request."

"Well, I refuse to honor it." John's crying again now. "I refuse to let you die alone."

Sherlock looks at him again with that warm expression, and nods, lips pursed.

"How much time, now?" John asks.

"About five minutes," Sherlock says.

There's a huge void opening up in John's chest, ripping through his bones and blood and muscle. They were supposed to survive this. They were supposed to survive this together.

Then, John reaches his hand up to Sherlock's cheek. "Is it… is it okay if-?"

Sherlock reaches down and kisses John, slowly and gently. John kisses him back, hungry. He refuses to let this kiss be a goodbye.

They finally part, and Sherlock cries out, clutching the bite at his neck.

"Sherlock!" John gently lowers him to the ground and sits down next to him, holding him close.

"John, get away. I'm going to change any minute now and-" he shudders.

"Shhh," John says. "I'm going to stay with you."

"At least bind my arms and legs," he gasps.

John hates it, but does as asked. They have rope in their bags, for many uses, but every survivor knows it may come to this. Quickly as possible, John ties Sherlock up, then takes him in his arms again.

Sherlock is crying, and John hates it.

"I love you too," Sherlock gasps.

"It's okay, it's okay, I love you, I love you," John murmurs. He chances a glance at his watch. One minutes left. He checks his gun, and bites back another sob.

John strokes Sherlock's hair as Sherlock shudders beneath him, and John kisses his forehead.

He sees the light in Sherlock's eyes dwindling, and right before it disappears, tells him "I love you" one more time.

The switch from human to zombie is terrible and absolute. Immediately, the zombie- not Sherlock, any longer, John cannot think of him like that-starts writhing and growling. John unlocks the safety on his gun and fires a shot straight through the zombie's brain, unflinching.

It goes still.

John is choking on his tears. He stumbles towards the body and touches its face, feels its hair and fingers one last time. Then, he drops to one knee and gently untangles the ratty blue scarf from its neck. John stands, putting his gun in his pocket. He brings the scarf to his face and cries into it. It smells like Sherlock.

John is not ready to leave. He is not ready to never see Sherlock again, he is not ready to leave this body to the others, and he is not ready to face the world on his own.

But he must.

So John winds the scarf around his neck, runs his hand through what used to be Sherlock's hair once more, and turns on his heel. He has skills and people are hurt. He'll see Sherlock again when his duties are over.

John refuses to let more people die.

So he sets out for the survivor camps he knows exist. He rubs the scarf's fabric between two fingers, and deep down in his bones, John knows that he is not alone.


End file.
